Singing Songs of Angels
by WhiteAngelAriah92
Summary: A whatif story featuring a ten year old Harry Potter, a revived Tom Riddle and the underworld...the Slave Trade. HPLV Not all ships are slash
1. Prologue

A Harry Potter Fanfic: _Singing Songs of Angels_

Prologue

The rain was hammering down solidly onto the city. Droplets spattered windows and burst themselves on the ground. It was nighttime, and the bleak darkness was only more exemplified by the broiling clouds rumbling up ahead. The rain fell like it had a purpose, and at the moment, its purpose was to drench a small, pale boy who was skulking about in an alleyway. He was busy setting about a few large cardboard boxes and dustbin lids to make as his makeshift home.

The little boy clambered inside one of the boxes and pulled another box in front of him, putting a dust bin lid on the roof of the box, he pulled some old worn clothes over himself and quietly drifted asleep.

Varick EngelFaust glared around him and uttered an exasperated sigh. He was a proud man of middle height, wispy brown hair and sharp blue eyes. He had many wrinkles adorning his face and at the moment they were forming a scowl. His arms were crossed and he was tapping his feet irritably.

His companion Finn Herrmann was opposite to him. He was tall, with blonde hair and brown eyes and was eagerly looking around the place with bubbly excitement.

"You see that? Aquarium! An aquarium! It says here"-

"Indeed. As interesting as this may be ve 'ave a job to do. Lord Dietrich vould not be pleased with us if we dawdled. Hmm?"

Finn looked crest fallen. He was a 6-foot tall lad with strong muscles, but it seemed his childish nature hadn't grown out yet and turned the man into a young excitable puppy, happily wagging its tail at new places.

Varick sighed and returned to the slip of paper and the map that had been given to him by Lord Dietrich. According to the magical readings, the little brat should be outside of Surrey, nearing the borders of London…

"So…v'ere do ve go next?"

"Vell…ve should be going…hmm…'ow much money do you 'ave?"

Finn's face screwed up as he fished around in his huge coat pockets. He produced a bulging wallet and gave it trustingly to Varick, who took it with his black-gloved hands and produced a wad of money.

Flagging down a taxi, they hopped in and he snapped his destination.

The taxi road off as the clouds opened again.

The taxi driver was apparently talking about some odd muggle sport called football.

"So, vhat you do again? Finn asked cheerily. Varick rolled his eyes, and while the taxi driver was busy explaining the rules and game play of 'football' he produced a small round piece of metal. The metal was shaped like a tennis ball, and when touched with a wand, magically opened itself up. Inside the ball were a small screen and a little dot, showing the outskirts of London. Varick shed a small smile. Of course, this was an unregistered artefact, but it was a useful and compulsory device used only in the slave trade. It would be silly to go tramping around the place going after little kids on the streets, it would look too suspicious and could be easily tracked, making it impractical. So Lord Dietrich had invented the Portable Magic Detector. A handy device that tracked down magical fields that was moving in a certain way signalling the presence of a human.

The journey was long and boring punctuated by traffic jams and road works, so he turned back to his Detector and admired the level of magic that was being given off…maybe that was why his master had been so excited.

"You 'ere that? It sounds like fun! I vant to try it sometime!" Varick jumped and quickly hid his device.

"What? You mean you've never played football in your life?" the driver asked incredulously.

"No, I"- Varick slapped a hand over Finn's mouth.

" 'E vas brought up in a posh family, they never allowed him to play football because they did not vant him dirty!"

The taxi turned his head slightly to look at the two strange men.

"If you say so…we're here."

Varick climbed out of the car and paid the driver his money then walked a little down the street. He glared at the rubbish littering the sidewalk as if his glare would make it disintegrate. 'You vould never find rubbish like this on the streets of Berlin,' he thought to himself.

After the taxi had drove off and he looked around to make sure no one was walking around or spying on them through their poorly made curtains he pulled the detector out of his coat pocket and consulted it. His heart jumped a bit and he almost bit his tongue. Finn peered over his shoulder and looked confused.

"V'at is wrong?" Varick merely ignore him and whipped his head around looking for the quickest way to the square of wherever he was. He took out another map that was more detailed for the area and sprinted away in the direction to the square. Finn quickly caught up and calmly jogged beside him. He glared at him.

He entered the square and leaned down slightly, desperately trying to catch his breath. People looked oddly at him as they passed by.

"V'at ve do now?" Several girls wearing dangerously short skirts giggled near by. Varick scowled at them and straightened up.

"Did I tell you I 'ated muggles and all things muggle?" he muttered more to himself.

Finn screwed his forehead in thought for a moment and then happily replied, "Yarrh, I think you 'ave.

You said it v'en ve entered London"-

Varick glowered at him and strode off down to the side of the square and into a side street, looking for a specific alleyway.

Finn looked on thoroughly confused. He looked around interestedly and ended up looking at the group of girls giggling madly and blushing at his gaze. One of them winked, and clueless, he winked back, before jogging after his companion. The girls fell about laughing with red faces.

Finn found the alleyway and stood by Varick's side as he was staring down him. Finn looked down and found a small set of boxes arranged in a way for shelter. But that wasn't what had Varick gaping. Inside the boxes, underneath a bundle of clothes, a very small pale boy. He was curled in a fatal position. But that's not what was making them gape with astonishment.

The boy had a jagged lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead.

This was the Boy-Who-Lived.


	2. The Angel and the Demon

**The Demon and the Angel**

****

The forest was dark and cold. The trees were so closely packed together, no sunlight could get through, and the ground beneath the huge looming canopy was bare, except for the waste of nature.

A thick, heavy fog curled around the tree trunks, the darkness of the night only served to make the trees a looming witness of a small, quiet ritual-taking place.

A terrified, muggle girl was tied to the torso a huge oak. She was writhing futilely against her bonds, tears running down her cheeks, the bondage causing deep red welts in her wrists.

A confident figure was busy, looming over a massive cauldron, big enough for a full-grown man to fit inside quite comfortably. He was throwing ingredients in and muttering to himself the whole time. The frightened girl was staring at him with the look of an animal that knew of its impending fate but still fighting anyway for any thin strands of a chance at life.

The tall man grabbed a bag and carefully produced a bone from it. It seemed to be human, and dropped it into the cauldron, he then pulled something else out, he winced, there were two little fingers and one index…master had said that it was enough. Those also met the same fate as the bone and were dropped unceremoniously into the cauldron. He then turned to the girl with a sneer. He picked up a dagger and moved towards the girl. She was writhing against the tree, now, trying to be as far as possible from the knife raised towards her. There was a slash. He clumsily opened a phial and collected the blood from her throat and poured that too into the cauldron.

The forest was strangely quiet now. There was only the soft hissing of the cauldron as its ingredients were heated by the crackling fire beneath it, and an impatient twitching from a small bundle nearby.

The man looked unconcernedly at the dead figure still held up by the ropes and then turned to the bundle. He held it and easily and carefully lowered it, too, into the cauldron.

There were sparks.

A blinding flash of red light.

The man threw his hood back. He had short blonde hair and an angled face.

The smoke was heavy.

"Master?" He called out uncertainly. His heart paused for a moment. Fear laced his mind…maybe he had failed…

And through the mist he saw a figure rising. His heart jumped and then beat two times faster. He raised slightly, excitement filling him.

The figure stepped out of the cauldron. The man quickly went to receive a black cloak and then stepped forward to the figure, clothing it.

The smoke slowly dissipated, revealing the figure. He was tall. His features inhumane. He was bald, with bone white skin and glowing red eyes with slits for pupils. His unnaturally, long fingers looked like spider legs. They clutched his torso.

The man and the…other man looked at each other. One was extremely excited and eagerly handed the other man a long, thin strip of wood.

"Quirrell, you have done well." Quirrell practically beamed with pride.

The other one looked around him and laughed. His voice was cold and high pitched.

"It seems…Lord Voldemort has returned."

Lord Dietrich was incredibly pleased. He looked at his reports, it seemed that his new batch of ten years olds ready to be auctioned off were one of the best he'd had in 5 years…Obedient, beautiful, strong…he allowed a small smile to cross his features.

He sat in a large airy room. It was domed shaped, and behind him stood roof-tall windows that allowed in a brilliant sunlight. The walls were white and around him stood pillars and bookshelves, doors leading off to other rooms and his personal bedroom. This was Lord Dietrich's office. He sat behind a large mahogany desk, darkly furnished and before him was various documents and official letters from various wealthy families, a glass of wine was held in one hand, and another hand was twirling a quill with a peacock feather.

A knock at the door sounded his pride-and-joy.

"Enter."

Lord Dietrich had a very refined and smooth voice. It was not overly posh, yet far from lower class, it also spelled that while he was incredibly patient and temper was practically unknown to him, he would also lock you up in chamber and calmly talk about the weather while you screamed for a release.

The large, double oak doors opened and in entered door two guards and between them a small boy wearing a simple white toga.

"Sit."

The little boy sat.

"You may go."

The two guards left.

He laid his chin on his hand and surveyed the boy in front of him…'yes, this was his pride-and-joy' he thought to himself.

The boy was small and thin, and while his physique did not suggest that he was malnourished it did suggest that he hadn't seen the sun for quite a time. His skin was white, almost glowing, and his raven black hair made a beautiful contrast…it was unruly, but that only intensified his quiet charm. The boy did not look at him, which was against the rules, no slave was allowed to speak, look or hear anything without their master's allowance. Apart from these simple rules, the Slave trade, at least the business Dietrich ran, was not cruel. Contrary to popular belief, he did not rape his subjects or beat them unnecessarily. In fact, comparing the situations, one might go as far to say that slavery was better then freedom in some circumstances, at least when you were a slave, you didn't have to worry about your income or where your next meal was coming from.

"Raise your head."

The boy did as he was told. Lord Dietrich kept his gaze, and admired his shining emerald eyes…eyes that held so much power and talent…

"You are nervous."

Lord Dietrich was well known for his ability to make a question without even making it a question.

"Yes my lord." Lord Dietrich smiled kindly at him.

"Well, I shall insure that you have a good home to receive…I have someone special in mind for you, power like yours, of course, should not be wasted."

The boy did not ask questions…he didn't expect him to.

"Thank you my lord."

Lord Dietrich sipped his glass of wine. He snapped his finger and a manservant entered from one of the side doors.

"Orange juice for my little one here." The servant nodded.

When the servant returned he was artfully carrying a tray with a glass of pure orange juice and a bowl of grapes. The manservant left.

He rose and walked round to the front of his desk, sat neatly on the corner and cupped the boy's chin. He caught the emerald orbs with his own grey ones and caught the fear and anxiety broiling in the little one's mind. He chuckled and kissed his forehead…where the scar rested.

"I have already insured you a good home." The boy recognised the hidden question.

"Yes, but…" Any protest died on his lips as a grape was pushed against his lips. He opened them obediently and chewed it slowly, letting the sweet juice's flavour bloom in his mouth before swallowing. He let his mind wonder. He felt a pressure by the boundaries of his mind. He let them through. Lord Dietrich always knew…

After a moment, Dietrich smiled in an almost fatherly way. He pulled the boy towards him, who fell easily towards his hand, and gave him a small hug, stroking his silky hair.

They stayed like that for sometime.

The sun grew dimmer.


	3. The Slave Trade

The Slave Trade 

The slave trade is essentially one of the richest branches of the Black Market. The Black Market deals in, obviously, slaves. Illegal creatures, magical or not, fur trade, drugs and dark items are only some of the things it deals in…there are other branches, for the more neurotic person, but we shall not delve into those pits.

Lord Dietrich was the head of the Slave trade in Eastern Europe, especially Germany, where he was based. He dealt out who would work for the slave trade, who wanted to buy from him, where to get the slaves, etc. He was not necessarily a cruel man; he was just cold and a true businessman. He steered people without actually steering them, and he had a unique way to deal with obedience.

Dietrich's business did not beat or starve his slaves unnecessarily. Only when it was called for. The children were usually orphans, disowned family members or children mentally or physically ill. The orphans were his main business. He sent out his men to visit orphanage houses to pick out the children that fit the guidelines for his trade. The mentally ill took longer to deal with, but he usually sorted them out in the end…Varick often said about Dietrich, that even if he was a slave trader, he still had a soft touch for children, and always saw potential for recovery…never put them down, he says. Who knows why this was.

Today would be the day to auction off his new batch. Auctioning was pretty simple. Fliers would be put out on all black market areas, like Knockturn Alley and letters sent to any significant Black Market traders or Black Magic Practitioners who might be interested. This would attract the crowds…and the money.

Lord Dietrich smiled sadly. It had been a joy raising these children…his smiled widened. He had put new terms on the contracts for buying slaves. When you bought a slave, there were still rights of the child that the owner had to follow. The Head of that particular branch oversaw these contracts and the terms in them to ensure their hard work didn't go to waste.

He got up and went to the large window in his office. He gazed out over the endless fields and observed a bird soar by…freedom…since he was little; he had come to the decision that true freedom was anarchy. Freedom, was to be free with everything, to have no worries, yet how could that be, when humans were naturally social creatures, even love bore chains.

He felt the air change slightly in the office as the door was opened.

"Yes, Gotz?"

Gotz was his grey-haired, owlish secretary. He was a very neat man; he often spent his spare time meticulously ordering everything out, down to the flow of the curtains to the shape of the pencils in his office, ordering them by size.

"Ze auction is starting soon sir."

" And who has showed up?"

" It appears our English Dark Lord friend is there."

Dietrich smiled. " Tom's a bastard, but you can always rely on him to be prompt."

Gotz wisely said nothing and waited for Dietrich to give him new instructions apart from being his personal organiser.

Dietrich cricked his neck and then, taking up his white fur coat, proceeded out of the office to go outside to the carriages. Gotz mechanically locked up the office first with 3 keys and then various spells, and then followed his master outside.

"Lord, err…?"

"Yes, Quirrel?"

They were quietly waiting in a small abandoned house and wrapped up in fur coats.

"Who are we waiting for and why are we waiting?"

Voldemort stopped pacing and gave Quirrel a sharp look. Quirrel blushed and shut his mouth with a click. Voldemort sighed.

"Because Dietrich invited me 'here'. Dietrich is the Head of the Slave trade for Eastern Europe, by the way." Voldemort added, noticing Quirrel's confused look. " For someone who prides himself on his knowledge of the dark arts, you don't know much do you?"

"Yes well…I was never well introduced to the _Black Market_…" Quirrel blushed realising he had just retorted to his Master, and hung his head.

Voldemort smirked. He then turned his head towards the window and spotted the plain carriage coming towards them. He sighed and nodded to Quirrel, who jumped up and proceeded to neaten himself up.

The door opened, letting in a cold gust of wind and a debris of white and then it closed. In stepped tow mean, one short, with white hair, and large owlish eyes, the other marginally tall, with cold grey eyes with blonde/brown hair, going grey at the roots. The tall one smiled pleasantly to Voldemort and bowed his head slightly. The shorter man followed suit. Voldemort returned the gesture.

"Why did you call me out all the way here?" Voldemort snapped.

The shorter man's eyes bulged and he sneezed. Quirrel winced, but the tall man laughed.

"Always the one to get to the point. Tom." Voldemort rolled his eyes.

"Always the one to indulge in unnecessary pleasantries, Dietrich." Voldemort retorted.

Dietrich laughed again and then proceeded to the one battered chair, turned it around and then sat quite casually on it. The shorter man followed and sat on another chair behind his master.

"Ok, we'll skip the pleasantries. You know of what trade I deal with, yes?" Voldemort nodded slightly.

"Well, I want you to 'splash out' a little money for me." Voldemort scowled, the expected reaction.

"Dietrich, you know I can barely afford to live with the little money I have." Quirrel's eyebrows raised at this little revelation. He had always thought his master was quite rich, being a Dark lord and all.

"Indeed? But I do have quite an interesting selection of slaves you might find quite…'interesting'." Voldemort's brows furrowed, and his gaze sharpened.

"What are you getting at here Dietrich?"

"I prefer to keep it a surprise, but I'm sure that it will catch your eye." Voldemort's brain was already working, trying to sum all the clues he had to try to figure out what Dietrich was eagerly pointing to.

"And this what you cam out, all the way here, to tell me? There's also the fact that I already mentioned, I have-"

"I could pay for it!"

All heads turned to Quirrel, who blushed but returned their gaze defiantly.

"Ah yes, Quirrel…I suspect you're half-blood, but grew up in a magical environment…your father was quite eager to teach the dark arts to his children, as I remember." Quirrel choked and stared dumbfounded at Dietrich's knowledge of his rather quiet family.

"It's settled then. While there will be temporary ownership of the slave to Quirrel, the papers will be sorted and the slave will be handed to you, Tom." Dietrich said with an air of finality.

Voldemort never the one to back down glowered at Dietrich.

"What makes you think I'll buy the slave anyway?"

"Call it a hunch?" Dietrich replied with a mysterious smile, before beckoning to his servant and exiting through the door he had entered.

It was a few seconds later before anyone in the room reacted.

"Quite an intriguing character…if I say so myself…" Quirrel murmured.

"Don't mention this to anyone, got it?" Voldemort hissed dangerously.

"Err…mention what sir?" Voldemort just gave him a pointed look, and Quirrel immediately knew what he was referring to.

He gulped.

"Never even though of it sir…" He glanced at his watch and then muttered, "if we don't get going soon we'll be late for the auction…"

"You're my babysitter now?" Voldemort snapped, mind elsewhere.

He strode out of the house in the hopes of repairing his rather damaged dignity, Quirrel trailing behind him, and they set off in the carriage Dietrich and rented for them to use.


	4. An Unexpected Surprise

**An Unexpected Surprise**

When Lord Voldemort and his companion, Quirrel, arrived to the place of auctioning, they were met with a very loud, noisy and bumbling crowd. People were walking every which way. Friends chatted amiably with each other while others took their time to look and invest in other stalls that had been set up around the centre stage, like bees attracted to honey. There were all sorts in the crowds, of all nationalities, and it seemed Voldemort definitely didn't look out of place.

The centre stage. This was where the Slave Trade sold their slaves every year. It wasn't overly large, only meant to fit a line of slaves at the end of the auctioning. It was made of richly furnished wood and circular, allowing a crowd of spectators to observe from all around. Off to the side was a small shed like building, where the owner of their new slave went to sign the papers and confirm ownership of the slave. Outside of that building sat Lord Dietrich and his associates, including his personal secretary, Gotz. They sat in a covered stall, surrounded by black clad bodyguards.

Dietrich found Voldemort and inclined his head slightly. Voldemort merely scowled and nodded to Quirrel. They quickly found a place under a tree and Voldemort sighed.

"I'm so excited! I've never been to an Auctioning before!" Quirrel said happily, jumping on the balls of his feet slightly, neck constantly circling, eyes taking in everything around him.

Voldemort rolled his eyes, irritated.

"Indeed."

"How do you bid for a slave?" Quirrel asked, looking intently at his Master.

"Quite simple. In an Auction this big, the people who are interested in bidding go to the stall next to where Dietrich and his men are and receive a large card with a number on from the Auctioneers assistants." He motioned to the stall, where, indeed, there was a smaller stall where a happy group of people were currently receiving their large white cards. Black, bold numbers had been printed on them.

"After you receive the card, you wait around the centre stage until the Auctioneer arrives and starts the Auction bidding. I'm sure you've been to other auctions, no?" Quirrel quickly nodded. "Then I'm sure you know the proceedings. You simply hold up your card to the price you like, if you win the bid, they put your number beside the slave on their list and take you away to that shed-like house where you sign the contracts…unless you want to wait around and see the other slaves." Quirrel happily nodded, with a look in his eye that said he was storing this new information in his memory.

"Well, we better get our cards!" Quirrel said happily, bounding off to the stall, Voldemort trailing behind in his wake and shaking his head slowly.

"Sir, you really sure they'll bid for it?" Gotz asked attentively.

"Positive, and I'm quite pleased with his followers enthusiasm." Dietrich replied, amused, as he eyed Quirrel, who was currently taking a card from the assistants.

"Is Lord Voldemort usually this moody, or is it just because of you?" Gotz asked well humouredly as they observed Voldemort rolling his eyes at Quirrel who seemed very energetic.

It seemed like many years before Dietrich finally answered. The Auctioneer was just about to get on stage and if possible, the crowd seemed louder.

"No…not always…there was I time when he would laugh freely…when he loved…" Dietrich seemed far away, revelling in old memories long past…

"Ze Auction 'as started," murmured his associate next him. He snapped out of his reverie and focused his attention to the stage.

"Welcome!" The Auctioneer said loudly over the hubbub of noise, instantly the noise hushed and all attention focused on the Auctioneer. He was a small man, greying hair, quite plump and seemed to have mismatched eyes. Nevertheless, he had the ability to command respect with just his voice, which seemed to slice through the air like a cudgel and hit people on the head.

"Welcome," he continued, slightly quieter but no less commanding, "to another year of excellent selling, I've been informed that this year has quite a lot in store for you, our best yet! So get your cards ready! We shall now start!" He turned slightly to one of his assistants behind him, who disappeared. Instantly, another assistant appeared with a slave beside him. He motioned the slave to stand centre stage.

The boy was quite tall, with vibrant red hair, a tanned face and strong build. He looked forward, eyes resting some feet above their heads, his stance was quite confident.

"Our first item. Good strong lad, very good for manual work, very fit. Our bidding shall start at 300DM, any takers?"

Several cards shot up. He carried on firing prices out, like gunshots and the cards still rose. The first bid finally ended on 1,950DM.

Slaves were continually led upstage. So far, all were a success and were being sold at very high prices. Dietrich watched as a brown haired girl with bright brown eyes was lead off, being sold for 2500DM. She was very intelligent, bought by a rich woman who instantly started mothering the slave, eagerly signing the papers.

He smiled slightly andcontinued to watch, knowing who would appear after the last two slaves.

"Wow…look at all those bids, and the slaves! You like this one?" He pointed at the mousy haired boy who was nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, while two men seemed to be glaring at each other and constantly raising their cards.

Voldemort gave a long suffering sigh, haven been asked that question at least a dozen times before, now. "No. Quirrel, I'll tell you to raise that card when one of them interests me, all right?" Quirrel looked slightly crestfallen.

"But they're nearly all gone!" He motioned to the boy who was being leaded off stage to a man who looked triumphant and smirked at his competitor. "It's been at least an hour now…"

"There's still two more." Voldemort murmured, eyeing another Dark Lord who was scowling at him. Quirrel looked around and happily waved at the scowling man, whose frown deepened even further and turned away.

"Who was that?"

"Rival. We knew each other at the Dark Arts Institute, never really liked each other." Quirrel nodded sagely.

"Any other people you might know here?" Voldemort scowled.

"Several, and some I'd rather not meet." Quirrel laughed. Voldemort glared at him and he laughed even harder, unable to hold himself in.

Another slave was lead off, having sold for a high price. The Auctioneer rapped his hammer on his small desk and called for silence. The noise fell.

"Now, we have a little treat this year. A very talented young boy…" He motioned to his assistant. This part of the auction was what a lot of the spectators who weren't bidding came to see. Some years, Dietrich had exceptionally talented slaves, and these were the treats. They were like a trophy to anyone who managed to win the bid. An expectant silence fell over the crowd, stilling them. Even the air seemed to be holding a breath to see who would be lead out.

Slowly, the assistant appeared, trailing behind him a very small boy. His skin was exceptionally pale, hair was jet-black and his eyes were a bright emerald. He was wearing a simple white tunic. But that was not what had the crowd stunned.

It was the lightning shaped scar.

Several heads turned to look at Voldemort, who was helplessly gaping like a fish. Quirrel quietly murmured something to him, and he shut his mouth with a click, expression still firmly fixed to an expression of shock.

"We shall now start our bid at 1000DM."

They were a few murmurs of outcry at the high price. The noise rose slightly. It seemed like half the crowd of bidders had turned white, so many cards were raised. The small boy looked at Dietrich slightly panicky, but Dietrich smiled kindly and he calmed slightly. He stood very still as the bid was very quickly rose to 2000DM. It didn't appear to be stopping anytime soon.

"M-master…?" Quirrel murmured, keeping his eye on the excited crowd. The rival dark lord was smirking at them.

"Quirrel, do you…" Itseemed Voldemort was aware of the high price as well.

Quirrel quickly shook his head and snorted. "What am I on about? Of course I can afford this!" He raised his card and kept it there, while the number of cards slowly fell.

The price had already risen to 8000DM.

The rival dark lord smirked keeping his card raised.

Slowly the cards around them fell, until it was only the two of them. The bid was now at 15000DM.

"Give up, tramp!" The rival called mockingly. Quirrel rolled his eyes and kept his card in the air. The Auctioneer didn't miss a beat and carried on firing prices at them. The crowd watched on with amusement and interest, clearly wanting to know who would win. The verbal sparring was also quite a show.

"Now, now, you shouldn't talk about yourself like that, it's bad for your health!" Voldemort shot back. Quirrel sniggered and kept his card raised.

"Really? At least I had a life!"

"And what was that? In the back of a dump?"

"At least my mother didn't think I was so ugly she went and killed herself!" The crowd sucked in breath and turned to watch Voldemort's reaction.

His eyes darkened and he stabbed him with his death glare.

"Come here, ponce and say that to my face!"

Dietrich almost laughed; this was turning rather interesting. The Auctioneer still fired off prices seemingly unaware of the growing tenseness in the crowd.

"90,000DM gentlemen?" Both their attentions were drawn to the Auctioneer who had an eyebrow raised. The crowd went silent watching them.

Voldemort looked at Quirrel out of the corner of his eye. Quirrel still had his card raised and was looking at the Auctioneer with deep concentration. The rival faltered, mind racing. He gave a cry of frustration, realising he couldn't afford that sparingly and threw down his card. He spat at Voldemort and stalked off, his followers following.

Voldemort smirked and called after him, "tossers never win!" he laughed as the rival flipped him the birdie and disapparated. The crowd applauded and then slowly moved off, noise returning.

"Wow…master, I didn't know you knew so many swear words…"

"Comes from my background…" he turned to Quirrel, praise voiced loudly in his eyes and a wide smile on his face. "Well done Quirrel!" Quirrel's arm limply fell by his side.

"Indeed!" Dietrich appraised happily behind them. He nodded to Voldemort and smiled at them both.

"Come! There is a lot we must do!" Still in high spirits they followed Dietrich to the stall where they were to affirm the ownership of their new slave.

* * *

Wow, this chapter was massive! Well compared to other chapters…yes yes; I hope I've explained a lot in this, Quirrel's such a sweetheart, no? I had to end the chappie there, sorry guys; otherwise this chapter would be like one very long essay O.o

Thankies for all the reviews! They're what push me to carry on writing! I'm sorry for the really long wait…but I'm a bit of a procrastinator…I won't write unless I have some inspiration for me to write on, otherwise it sounds strained…

DM is the Deutshmark sorry if I spelt that wrong ; I looked it up and found that germany only converted to the euro in 1 February 2001. Also, magical Germany goes by the Muggle currency :) They're a little more lax with the two communities:D


	5. Zephyr

**BOOM!** I'm back D**  
**

* * *

**Zephyr**

Dumbledore carefully, and meticulously, stared at nothing. His eyes held that glazed look one associated with a student, bored mindless in one of Binn's exhilarating lectures on the many, and seemingly endless, Goblin civil wars in god knows what time, at god knows what place. Only, while these eyes were glazed, the organ beating behind it was not, and as it was, this particular organ was deep in thought, rather than the brainless wanderings of a normal adolescent mind.

Dumbledore admitted, that he made a dear, and rather terrible, mistake. Although, somehow, that sentence seemed too weak. His eyes un-glazed, and they were filled with a brief, heart-striking grief. He knew he should've listened to Minerva, but as always…ever sure of himself…he thought about his late wife…about Grindlewald…about the war…

He sighed. In that one sigh, one could see the true effect of time on him. His wrinkles seemed deeper than ever, his eyes sadder, his posture slightly sloping…He had left Harry at the Dursleys, in the full surety that they would at least see to it that he was sheltered, clothed, fed…time to enforce the blood protection inherent in Petunia Dursleys blood…

But it was not to be…at the age of 5, little Harry had been dumped on the cold and unforgiving streets around London…home to murderers, criminals, the lot…he felt an uncomplicated, deep rage at that. How could anyone just leave a defenceless child out on the streets? They didn't have the defence of saying that it was forced on them, since by rite of law and family, Harry would be passed onto the closest relative, that being Petunia Dursely.

The Dursleys had been taken to court…but it had been done. The information for where they had left Harry had been easily pulled out of them. The Order had raced to find the boy, but by the time they got to the location it was already too late. The boy was nowhere. Fearing the worse, they went into mild panic, the intensity of the search had picked up, but still no sign. The only consolation anyone had for the Boy-Who-Lived was that there was evidence that he was still alive. His folders at the Ministry had not reported a deceased signature by his aura, and the gadgets on Dumbledore's desk concluded that.

Of course, they could've used an Owl to track Harry. That had been tried. And failed. Someone was cloaking the boy, making sure he wasn't to be found. There was no other explanation.

Dumbledore sighed, looking out the window. There was still a search, even now, after 5 years, but it was mild now…he only hoped, dearly, that the boy was all right and being looked after, maybe by whoever might've picked him up when he had been abandoned. He would love to meet that person, if that was the case, and thank them dearly.

For now, he had other matters to attend to.

* * *

The inside of the shack like building was modest. It had various stalls where slaves were lined up and their awaiting owners busily signed out the papers and forms to confirm the ownership. It was rectangular and made of brightly furnished wood, the lighting quite bright. You could say it was cheap and cheerful. 

Voldemort just glared.

Dietrich laughed, while Quirrel smiled tiredly.

"If you would kindly follow, my good sirs?" Dietrich said, preferably ignoring the intensity of the glare the most powerful Dark Lord of the century was directing at the back of his neck.

The Leader of the Eastern Europe Slave Trade directed them to one of the more secluded corners of the building. The corner had a door on one wall, while the other wall housed numerous files and documents, a large table, a jug of coffee and many quills. Gotz was quietly sitting there, arranging the papers and muttering to himself.

"Gotz, the slave please?" Gotz jumped out of his work and quickly withdrew a ring of keys, opened the door opposite and went in. A couple of minutes later he came out, holding a chain and leading the boy out.

Dietrich coughed quietly and the boy looked up.

Innocent green orbs met vivid red. They locked. They both flinched, but remained in their stupor.

Dietrich quietly smirked, pleased at something or other, and coughed again, effectively breaking them out of the lock both set of eyes were in. He retrieved the papers and cleared a space on the table.

"I have two confirmation papers. One for you Quirrel, then one for you handing over the ownership to your master," Dietrich nodded to Voldemort, who scowled.

"Oh! Of course!" Quirrel exclaimed pleasantly. He retrieved one of the quills Gotz had been previously fiddling with, and read through the requirements on the contract, smirking lightly. He signed. Then turned to the other contract, and without hesitation signed it as well. He then handed the quill to his master, who scrawled his signature with a very spidery script.

Dietrich's quiet smile burst into a full-blown smirk. He then made a copy of both contracts and handed them to their respective owners.

"Shall I receive your money through check, Mr. Quirrel?" Quirrel nodded. Gotz handed him a check, in which Quirrel signed out his Vault number and the sum to be paid. He then scrawled out his signature and the date of the payment.

"Excellent! A pleasure doing business with you gentlemen!" Dietrich said smoothly, opening a briefcase and carefully laying the contract papers in. Voldemort watched wearily, aware that something was being done without his knowledge. He returned his attention to the boy, who was currently looking at the floor, an emotionless mask plastered onto his face. Voldemort continued to watch him, aware that the only emotion he was feeling was numb shock. He definitely had not been expecting this turn of events. Hadn't the Old Man been taking care of his precious Golden Boy, he thought viciously?

Gotz stood and politely coughed, drawing all attention to him.

"Some fundamental rights of a Slave"-

"Slaves have rights?" Quirrel asked incredulously. Gotz spared him a brief scowl. Quirrel shirked back and blushed, giving him the motion to carry on.

"Yes, they still have rights," Gotz continued, sparing Quirrel another scowl, "these rights include; forbidden use of the Avada Kedavra curse and all other methods of killing. There is a set amount of time you may torture your slave, and some tools may be forbidden, more detailed information of that is on the contract. A cane or other form of whipping is excluded from that right. The Imperious curse and other forms of mind control are also strictly forbidden. A slave cannot be fed for no longer than 5 days. They cannot drink water for more than 3 days, though this may be extended, as they grow older. A slave may not be sold on directly; the owner must contact the Slave Trader first before negotiations like that begins. A slave also has a right to a name. This name may not be changed throughout the duration of the time the slave is owned by the one owner." Gotz paused, catching his breath back. "Any questions?"

Quirrel shook his head, mildly amazed.

'Excellent!' Dietrich cut through the silence, a pleasant smirk upon his face. He beamed at Voldemort, who returned the beam with a dull glare and unceremoniously handed the chain to the Dark Lord's pale, spidery hand. The said Dark lord looked down at the chain, along the chinks, to the pale neck it was clasped around, travelling up the pert little lips and nose, to the vivid green eyes.

'Indeed,' Voldemort murmured. Dietrich and Quirrel were quietly talking with each other while Gotz had already packed up the desk with all its papers and paraphernalia.

'Which leaves the question, what will you name your new slave?' Dietrich asked, once the desk had been cleared.

All eyes in the room turned on Voldemort, who refused to shift in embarrassment from the focused attention. The Dark lord had always liked to be the centre of attention, but that was either when people were wetting themselves with fear from him, or with adoring reverence and kissing the hem of his robes, or both. Expectant eyes always unnerved him. He turned his eyes back onto the tiny boy before him, who was staring obediently at the ground, having heard no allowance to look or speak from his new master.

The silence stretched onwards.

'…Zephyr. I shall name him Zephyr.' Voldemort blinked at the first name his mind had thrown at him under the pressure of expectation.

Dietrich thought for a moment and smiled. 'Fitting…and now gentlemen, I shall take my leave.' He half-bowed to Voldemort, and gave a nod to Quirrel, before leaving the tent, Gotz in tow.

* * *

Argghhhhh! I'm so so so so so sorry for the long wait! T.T Kill me now! I'm terrible! cries and dies It's just..it's just... 

Muse: Stop making excuses and get back to writing! smashes Ariah on the head with metal guitar

Ariah: ...

Anyway! I love you all! I really do!

Onto notes on the chapter. **I am not a Dumbles hater. **Therefore Dumbles will be a good guy in meh story U.U Sorry to disappoint those who hate Dumbles ; I just love him so much, but I love Quirrel more...pets Quirrel

Anyway, Zephyr is the name of the Greek God of the East wind, described as being gentle...:) Fitting xD

REVIEW! You make my Musie happy D


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